Prey (The Shade Chronicles Book 1)

by T. K. Bradley

  For a brief moment, Kenzo's face comes to mind. I think about the way his lips had brushed against mine, a promise of kindness and safety. Kenzo is a catch by any standards. But… in this world we now live in, I don’t want to choose someone just because they’re the only option left. That wouldn’t be fair to either of us.

  And then I look at my dad. His eyes hold a promise of their own. “Kenzo? Ha! He wishes,” I say, keeping Kenzo a secret to myself. Dad finally cracks a smile; it’s weak, but it feels like a real accomplishment.

  “Okay,” he says. “We’ll assume for right now that we made the right decision. But we still have some major decisions to make.”

  "Like what?" I ask. I mean, obviously we don't have all the answers, but we're relatively safe. Right?

  Dad looks at me a moment longer. "We can't stay here, Lori."

  His words hit me harder than I would have expected. I guess I know we can't stay here, I didn't really have any long-term plans to stay. But... there's food, water, electricity. Beds to sleep in. Obviously safety from whatever monsters lurk in the shadows. "But... why not?" I shrug. "All told, it's not the worst idea ever."

  Dad leans closer with a look towards the room at large. "Do you trust Bob?" he whispers.

  "Not a lick," I say with a giggle.

  "I'm serious, Lori."

  "So I am," I reply. "He's not stable, Dad. But he's resourceful. He has survived out here for longer than any of our scavengers were able to survive. He's living a life here at least as well as the people in the compound. Is it so wrong that we join him?"

  Dad frowns but he doesn't disagree. "You seem to have thought a lot about this."

  "Honestly, I hadn't really thought about it until just now. But that's kind of why I think it's a decent idea. Because I wasn’t actively thinking about leaving." I look at my dad pointedly. "When we were in the compound, leaving was the only thing I could think about. We thought about it every day since Mom died, we planned our escape for ages. That, to me, says more about our safety than anything."

  "You make a good point," he says with resignation. "How did you get to be so smart?"

  "It was all Mom's doing."

  "I have no doubt," he says with a sad chuckle.

  "So we'll ask Bob if we can stay?" I ask.

  "Okay. We should talk to Brent first, but I don't see why we shouldn't at least ask Bob if it's an option. But," he says, holding a finger up, "I think we should at least have a backup plan. If Bob doesn't want us here, or if something happens to jeopardize our safety, we should have a way out planned. Agreed?"

  “Deal,” I agree. “I’ll go untangle Brent from the workout room and we’ll take a look at Bob’s maps.” I push away from the window and reach out to give Dad’s arm a squeeze on the way by.

  I freeze, still in contact with him. “Dad?”

  “Hmm?”

  “How are you feeling?” My blood is running cold beneath my skin, making him feel even hotter.

  He shrugs off my hand. “I’m fine. Maybe a little tired.”

  I slap a hand to his forehead. “You’re scalding!” I try to gently nudge his head forward so I can check his bandages, but he stands up, putting distance between us.

  “I said I’m fine!” he snaps.

  “I know what you said.” I square my shoulders and stare him down. We’re in a standoff. Now it’s just a matter of who is more stubborn.

  Lucky for me, he’s sick and in no shape to stand up to me. A split second later, I see the defeated look in his eyes. I close the distance between us and gently push him back down to the windowsill.

  “Okay, let’s see it.” I know it’s going to be bad, or Dad wouldn’t have tried to hide it from me. But I’m still not fully prepared for it. At first, as I peel back the makeshift bandage, all I can tell is that it’s red and inflamed. But then the smell hits me. I’m instantly taken back to my kitchen-duty rotation, when Cook had me clean out the fridge after the power grid went down for two days. I threw out about fifty pounds of rancid meat that day…

  Stomach acid crawls up my throat, but I do my best to choke it back down. What kind of message will that send to Dad? With all the effort at not puking, I forget to school my face.

  “I know,” he says with a groan. “It’s bad.” He wipes a stray tear from his cheek. I wonder how long he's known.

  “No, Dad. This isn’t bad," I snap. "It’s worse than bad. It’s catastrophic. Devastating.” I take a step back in an attempt to put it all into perspective. From farther away, though, I wonder how I missed all the signs. My dad is feverish, sweaty and flushed. Even if I hadn’t seen the wound under the bandage, I should have noticed the red streaks trailing down his neck.

  I only lasted on nursing duties for one rotation, since I obviously didn’t have the bedside manner, but I did pay attention. I know what blood poisoning looks like. “You need antibiotics.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Dad rears back and shouts in my face, catching me off guard. “You think I can’t feel the poison running through my veins? But let me ask you this… what the fuck do you think we can do about it?”

  “Maybe Bob has some antibiotics stashed…” I trail off because Dad is already shaking his head.

  “I asked him last night. He doesn’t have another more than what he’s already offered us. Whatever they had in the store’s first aid kits.”

  Then there’s only one option, and he knows it.

  “We have to go—”

  “No!" he cuts me off. "Out of the question!”

  “You didn’t let me finish!” I shout.

  “I don’t need to let you finish. You think we should go back to the compound. And you’re wrong.”

  “A second ago, you were debating about how we made the wrong decision to leave! You were worried about boys. Boys!" I shout in his face. "But you don't seem to care that they have medicine! They can fix you up, good as new.”

  “But I won’t be good as new. I’ll be good as old. We’ll be right back where we started, between a rock and a hard place. Or rather, between a solid concrete wall and a rifle aimed at our heads.” Dad slumps against the window frame in defeat. “And there would be no changing our minds. They would never let us slip through their fingers again.”

  My argument to stay out here was too solid. And for once, Dad actually listened to me, actually respected my decision. I pull my hair between my fingers. This was never how it was supposed to be. We were supposed to leave the compound and live out our lives with our freedom intact. But I guess that's what we're doing after all. Our lives just may be a bit shorter than we had expected.

  Brent hasn’t stopped pacing. The constant back and forth is making me queasy. I crumple up one of the many pieces of paper from the table before me and chuck it at him. He watches it as it sails past him.

  Even though my projectile didn’t make contact, Brent comes back to the table and sits down across from me. “Okay, so run the plan back for me.”

  “Again? Dude.” We’ve been over it at least a dozen times, but no matter how many times we rehash it, it still sounds like a suicide mission.

  “We need to iron out every single wrinkle. Even one misstep in either direction, and we’re all dead; sun-roasted or eaten alive, the outcome will be the same.”

  “Yes, because reminding me of our inevitable demise is going to help me think straight,” I say, deadpan. I expect him to give some kind of reaction, but he just stares unblinking until I sigh and pick up the map. “Fine. The hospital is six blocks to the south.” I stab my finger onto the map in the general vicinity of the hospital; I don’t feel the need to be exact anymore, but Brent reaches out and slides my finger over an inch, until it’s touching the blue H.

  I clench my teeth and continue. “According to Bob, the safest time to travel is just after the sun has begun to rise. It’s too bright for the monsters, but still cool enough for us to travel. If we move fast, stay ahead of the heat, we should make it there with time to spare.”

  Bren
t is focused on the map, nodding slowly. “We have a problem.”

  “Is it the monsters? I agree. We can’t keep calling them taintfangs. How about ‘Body Munchers’?” The look of disgust on my brother’s face says it all. “You’re right. Too… sexual.”

  “No!” He holds up his hands, begging me to stop. “I’m talking about all the assumptions we’re working with. I need facts, not guesses.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, for starters, we’re assuming those creatures can’t come out in the daylight. Just because we haven’t seen them do it, doesn’t mean they can’t. Also, we’re assuming that Bob knows what he’s talking about. You have to admit, he isn’t exactly playing with a full deck. And then…”

  “Then… what?” I ask. Brent looks dire, and it’s stressing me out.

  “We have no guarantees that there will be any medicine at the hospital. The chances are slimmer than slim.”

  "I know," I groan. I had already come to this same conclusion. “Unless you happen to have some secret antibiotics in your back pocket, then this is our best shot.”

  “Our only shot,” he corrects me.

  “And we’d better do it now, before Dad gets sicker.”

  We both nod and push our chairs back. Brent grabs the map, and we head back to the bedroom to break the news to Dad.

  We’re going back outside.

  20

  Lori

  So, breaking the news to Dad certainly went well.

  There was a lot of shouting, and it all just slid downhill from there. It went on for far too long, so let me just sum it up with a few key points for you.

  Dad: There’s no way I’m going to let you put yourselves at risk for me.

  Brent: We’re old enough to make our own decisions. We’re going.

  Dad: Good luck getting me to move.

  Brent: Then we’ll just have to go without you.

  Dad: If you set foot outside, you’re grounded. *He may not have said those exact words, but it was something equally ridiculous.*

  At this point, I couldn’t have rolled my eyes any harder without pulling some ocular muscles, so I just turned on the tears and everybody stopped yelling. They all patted me on the back and told me everything was going to be okay; meanwhile, I was snickering to myself about how gullible these boys could be. Haven’t they ever noticed that I don’t cry? Haven’t since Mom died. I suspect my tear ducts are filled with dust.

  Once I had finally wipe my face dry on my shirtsleeve, Dad pats the bed beside him, inviting us both to sit. As we cuddle together on the bed, I take a moment to recognize exactly how amazing this is. The military spent so much time trying to keep us all apart, segregated to our individual groups. They tore apart the family units and stuck us all into groups of unlikely allies. They took every opportunity to sow the seeds of doubt among us, so that we never felt safe. We were scolded for human contact that they deemed “unnecessary.” I was beginning to think I wasn’t capable of accepting the touch of another human being.

  And yet, here we are. As if no time has passed, our family is still together, still strong. I wish Mom were alive to see us get back to this place we had all thought lost. I place my head upon my dad’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, fast and unsteady, while he smooths the loose hair from my forehead.

  “I don’t want to lose you,” Dad says simply. “I feel like I just got you back, after all that time we were forced apart.”

  “Well, we don’t want to lose you either,” I say, turning his argument back at him.

  Brent lay on the other side of our father, a pillow muffling his words.

  “What was that Brent?”

  Brent lifts his face up, and repeats, “We’re all in agreement. We stay together. But Dad, do you realize what that means?”

  From the look on Dad’s face, I would say he does.

  "Dad," I say, "we're not going to just sit idly by, watching you waste away, when there is something we can do to help.

  I place the map on his chest. He averts his eyes, refusing to acknowledge our suicide mission. “Dad. What happens when Brent gets pneumonia? Or I get an infected paper cut?” I hate to admit that it’s a likely cause of death for someone with my limited grace.

  After an unbearable minute of awkward silence, he looks back down at the map. “Okay.”

  "Okay?" I ask, sure I haven't heard him right. I honestly expected him to put up more of a fight.

  “YAY!” Bob jumps up from beside the bed, where he was crouched out of sight.

  “Holy hell!” I shout. “How long have you been camped out down there, Bob?”

  “I dunno. Like an hour?” he says with a shrug.

  “Sure. Nothing weird about that.”

  He’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with pent-up energy. Of course he has energy to spare, since he just had a nice little creepy rest down there. “Road trip! I’ll go pack!”

  "Wait, Bob!" I shout at his disappearing form.

  I think he might not have heard me, until he pops his head back through the curtain. "Yes?" he says slyly.

  "Just wondering... you mentioned a road trip." He nods. "What are the chances you have a car. You have to admit it would make the trip to the hospital a whole lot easier."

  "Yep yep, sure would be easier," he says, nodding.

  We all wait for him to continue but he just stares, his eyes gazing back expectantly. "Bob?"

  "Yeah."

  "A car?" I coax again.

  "Obviously."

  "Obviously? As in... you have one?" I ask, my voice getting high under my strain to stay calm.

  "Duh," he says. "I have your car."

  "What?!" I shriek. "This whole time you've had our truck?"

  Dad places a hand on my arm to stop me from lunging across the bed at him. Little does he know it'll take more than a hand on the arm to stop me. That lying bastard! I leap from the bed, but Brent catches me in mid-air. "Let me go!" I grunt, struggling from his grasp.

  Bob doesn't seem at all fazed by my fury. He smiles, completely oblivious to the fact that his life is seriously in danger. If only I could get my hands around his skinny neck.

  "I'll get the truck gassed up for us," he says in a bubbly voice.

  "You've got gas too?" Who the hell is this guy?!

  We watch as the nutcase swoops out of the room, a man possessed.

  “Any chance we can find a way to ditch him?” Brent asks, his arms still locked around my waist in case I decide to sprint after him.

  I nod. “I will make it my mission in life.”

  “I knew I could count on you, sis.” The fight drains from me and he lets go, while Dad mumbles something about his weirdo kids.

  We spend the night preparing for dawn. Dad’s getting worse by the hour, so we need to move as soon as possible. And, just as luck would have it, Bob has a timetable for sunrise and sunset. If his calendar is correct, and it is indeed August 20th, then the magic time is 6:12am.

  As strange as Bob is, he is also ridiculously prepared. I probably could have guessed, considering his department-store penthouse.

  He lines up backpacks for us, and instructs us to bring the bare minimum, life-saving essentials only. Although I don’t know if it could ever save my life, we each get a little wood-handled steak knife with a serrated blade. Gee, I feel so much safer now.

  Bob nods sagely. “Hope for the best but prepare for the worst; that’s what my mama used to say. And if we’re going to be forced to outrun anything, you don’t want 20 pounds of canned goods strapped to your back. Pick out a pair of running shoes that fit snug.”

  He has probably 50 pairs of shoes to choose from, including women’s. I assume he was preparing for his daughter’s arrival. I try not to think about her while trying on maybe-Kelly’s shoes, but no matter how hard I tried, I can’t stop myself from imagining her dead and eaten by now.

  Bob must have at least considered the option by now, right? What kind of reaction would I get if I brought it up with him?
I imagine him jumping out from behind a curtain, yelling Boo or Hi, or something equally random. I find it far too easy to next imagine a knife in his hand.

  Yeah, I’m not going to be the person to bring up his dead daughter.

  My bag is mostly packed, as per Bob’s instructions. At my request, Bob has retrieved the small first-aid kit from the truck, and I've crammed it into the bottom of my pack, just in case we get separated from the truck a second time. I'm not going to let this thing out of my sight again. It doesn't have anything more than the basics: gauze, antibacterial ointment. Too little, too late. The compound's trucks never have more than emergency supplies for a quick patch-up. I guess they figure that if you don't have a way home, where the real medical supplies are, then you don't have much of a chance at surviving. No point in wasting the good drugs and supplies on you. But right now, even the basics are better than nothing, just in case we get there and find the hospital has been raided. A very real possibility.

  Bob specifically said no canned goods, so I grabbed a handful of granola bars. Just enough to last a day or two; hopefully we don't need longer than that. But there’s an itch at the back of mind that is impossible to ignore. Leaving food behind feels like a big no-no, and I reason with myself, what difference can a few cans make? I tuck the cans in, those ones with the easy-pull tabs, and the brain-itch feels at least a little scratched. I also bring water, because duh. Have you looked outside lately?

  But then, I look around at Bob’s bizarre assortment of lamps, and I realize that I’m missing something. I think it’s a pretty safe assumption that there won’t be any electricity at the hospital, so unless he intends to carry a portable generator strapped to his back, we’d better pack flashlights.

  “Hey, Bob?” I call out. The department store is a largely open space, so my voice carries well. I wait a minute, but he doesn’t answer. I cringe, and check beneath the couch and behind the dresser just to be on the safe side. No Bob. He must be in one of the back offices.